


Blue Wall

by bunchofgarbo



Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Friends to Lovers, Later on resolved sexual tension, M/M, Maybe way too long, They stayed in prison for a little bit longer, Unresolved Sexual Tension, my bad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunchofgarbo/pseuds/bunchofgarbo
Summary: Those brief moments where Luke gets to stand up and step outside that God awful cell make up for every single melancholic and death wishing hour spent there.





	Blue Wall

There really wasn’t much to look at inside a prison cell.

You either collide fists with the hard impenetrable wall, or you take a seat next to the not-so-secure bench whose main purpose is to support your damn weight and stay in place and intact throughout the process, but at this point Luke figured out that it is in fact a better and smarter option to just sit on the cold floor. Can’t risk breaking another concrete bench, this is the third one the guards have very nicely (and by nicely I mean reluctantly and screaming right on his face) replaced for him. Luke couldn’t really blame himself for it; after all he’s not exactly a skinny looking guy who weights as much as a leaf, and if they want to keep a big guy with enough strength to punch his way out of a fight with forty men in a small and tight prison cell they better work on the accommodations. 

Which every living soul in that prison already knows that isn’t going to happen in the near future, or in twenty years, or in a hundred. The main rule is: you want to be a smart-ass and commit crimes like you will never get caught, you will suffer the consequences.

Wrapping your brain around that old-fashioned mentality makes even the most naïve thief crack a smile out of embarrassment, because let’s face it, most of these buff guys don’t even own an apartment to live in. They take this rat infested cell as a gift from above.

You’d think that with all the crimes they committed they’d have decoded the concept of “being smart and putting that money to good use”, but the amount of angry tattooed middle aged men grunting on the second floor obviously puts that theory to dust. About maybe twelve percent (does it really reach that high of a rate?) of those men are there not because of their acts of stupidity or stealing their grandma’s jewelry, but because they were caught in a trap.

Luke Hobbs was also caught in one of those traps. And that makes the twelve percent.

It wasn’t really a sensitive topic that could make him shed a tear and mutter words of both anger and frustration; the man was well used to this kind of situation. How could he not be when a big part of his life was arresting guys like the ones surviving in that shit hole?

Coping with these people was the least of his problems. The simple action of sitting down on the floor was a struggle itself; his legs almost reached the other side of the cell, touching the wall or nearly doing so, but if he stretched his legs just enough he would definitely feel the wall blocking his way out of that cubicle.

The orange suits they demanded all prisoners to wear couldn’t exactly be considered the most comfortable nor wearable pieces of clothing. For some mysterious reason, the guards decided to hand him a suit a tad bit too small to fit in; it tightened around the edges and curves of Luke’s well built body, and needless to say it was a pain in the ass to keep his cheeks from squeezing the thin fabric in. Flexing your legs and pressing them to your chest while sitting down was a rookie mistake, or so at least Luke found out the hard way within the first few hours of his prisoner life. He erased that option from his brain, settling for the awkward position he was struggling to be in.

The dim light hanging from the ceiling was making it hard for him to focus his gaze on the view right in front of him, his vision getting substantially blurry, and he would be lying if he said this didn’t bother him in the first few days however it wasn’t the case anymore.

He paused his thoughts for a second. Silence. Absolute silence.

Not a single laugh or corny joke could be heard in the perimeter, and that particular situation itself was as rare as it comes. You see, agent Hobbs had a special (or rather unwelcomed) neighbor pacing around the cell right in front of his.  
He’d make his presence noticeable the exact second he’d wake up, with the way he stretched those long and toned arms, followed by the crack of his knuckles and a loud hum in the back of his throat, causing his thin lips to form a smirk, and God knows how badly Luke wants to slap the living color out of that mouth. The delicacy of his fingers rubbing his still half shut eyes shattered the mental image Luke had of Deckard, whom he could only describe as heartless. Well, maybe a few more words who are certainly not pg rated.

No one warned him. No one told him that professional ass kicker and part time tea drinker Deckard Shaw was in fact human and he wakes up everyday like any other living being on this planet. It was certain why Luke had such a vision of Deckard, to the point he could very much consider him a comic book villain instead of a person capable of feeling any emotions: the bastard couldn’t possible have the slightest bit of humanity left in him after all he’s done.

The first night he spent in the cell proved Hobbs wrong, or at least it softened his perception of Deckard. He was expecting a lot more bickering and full-mouthed threats coming from the British man, but instead, he settled down on the single’s bed (these people have no idea of how hard it is for a big guy to sleep in one of those, but what’s new?), a deep sigh echoing in the dark chamber, as Deckard laid down to rest on the bendy bed, only a few and almost inaudible words coming from his mouth.

“I expect to wake up with my teeth intact, tooth fairy” his gaze never met Luke’s, and as hard as it is for Luke to admit, he’d prefer to have Deckard look him straight in the eyes while he’s being the provocative prick he is.

“Goodnight.” And that was it. No “bastard” or “son of a bitch” to follow up that snarky statement, it was just a weak and quick goodnight coming from Shaw, and that honestly made Luke’s blood boil in his veins.

And was he sleeping? Did he actually fall asleep? What do you mean Deckard Shaw sleeps? Worse than that, why does he look so peaceful while sleeping?  
“But why do I care?” that particular thought interrupted the messy sequence of questions over floating his head. He wasn’t interrupted even once throughout that night, and the night after, and the one after that. 

The same couldn’t be said about the daylight.

At various times during the day, guards conduct counts, and during a count, all prisoners must stand in front of their cells while the guards do a head count to make sure no one is missing or in a place they aren’t supposed to be.  
Those brief moments where Luke gets to stand up and step outside that God awful cell make up for every single melancholic and death wishing hour spent there. It’s in that particular time of the day that Deckard also stepped out of his “cage”, and you have to feel at least the tiniest bit of pity for the guards who are obliged to keep these two animals away from each other.

“Stand straight, hands behind your back” the monotony in the guard’s voice wasn’t the most thrilling thing to hear, but Hobbs did as he was told. Following their rules didn’t exactly make him the happiest man alive but disobeying them was also not part of his plans. 

Being a turning heads in that place meant no good. No one looks at you with the slightest bit of sympathy, it’s rather the opposite; you feel the knives in the back of your skull, and also the front, and in your entire body. Hobbs didn’t exactly make any new friends there; he’d have a better chance at bonding with a twelve year old at a Tay Tay concert than sitting down and talk to one of those hard headed fuckers.

“You, hands behind your back. Stand straight. And don’t move, you hear me?” the guard raised his voice once Deckard showed intentions of moving a little bit too close to Luke, because they already knew how that would end up, and four of the guards had already taken some time off because of concussions and several broken ribs. Not even a written apology coming from Hobbs would make them want to come back to work anytime soon.

“It’s alright, as much as I’d love to stick my whole fist down his throat, I don’t feel like wasting my energy with him.” Luke spoke for both of them, his eyes meeting Deckard’s, swallowing hard at the sight of the other man standing right in front of him and only a few feet away. 

Luke had to find the deepest of strengths to stop himself from rolling his eyes to the back of his head the second Deckard opened his mouth to speak.

“Well, look at that” he spoke, and Luke wondered if it was possible to punch the accent out of someone, but if he didn’t shut up within ten seconds he would gladly try to find out “Doing as you’re told, like a good girl.”

It wasn’t the first and it certainly wasn’t going to be the last time Deckard called him a good girl, but he somehow couldn’t talk back on that one.

“I’ll get my ass out of here sooner than you think, while you’ll have to dig your way out of here with your own hands. And we both know your majesty can’t risk breaking a nail.”  
And there it was again, the tug of the lip which led to a smirk, and for Luke it was becoming too recurring. That initial provocation that awakened a fire within Luke, leading to his fists clenching in such a way that it made his veins pop from so much force used, and the lack of words that forced him to swallow his pride, and anger mixed with something he could not even identify. 

It was enough to make him want to punch a wall, but not enough to make him want to punch Deckard. And how many times was Luke going to feel weak on the legs whenever he smiled?

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello hello, guys! It's been... maybe four years since I wrote my last fanfic (let's not talk about it, awful times), and now because of these big, bald guys i'm back at it again.
> 
> This is supposed to be a longer story, it will have several chapters, but bare with me because i'm a busy pringle because of college.
> 
> If you find any mistakes or anything that doesn't seem right, let me know on tumblr (tyedillinger.tumblr.com) and i'll work on it.


End file.
